


hey, old man

by westernapparel



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernapparel/pseuds/westernapparel
Summary: When Harley hears the words “We’re sorry to inform you of the passing of your mother and sister,” he starts to run.He runs and runs and runs until his feet and legs ache, until the dirt turns to pavement and the godforsaken sun becomes a kneeling, patchy ceiling.





	1. Chapter 1

When Harley hears the words “We’re sorry to inform you of the passing of your mother and sister,” he starts to run.

He runs and runs and runs until his feet and legs ache, until the dirt turns to pavement and the godforsaken sun becomes a kneeling, patchy ceiling. He needs to leave. He needs out. He needs someplace new, someplace other than the aching familiarity of ghosts.

And he’s seeing them at every turn, their remnants and legacies and everything that Harley can’t, could never be. It’s all so overwhelming that he realizes that he shouldn’t be panicking—he is fifteen (going on sixteen), after all.

The silence in the air is about as comforting as a wrench to the face, which doesn’t feel like anything in the face of _they’re dead, dead, dead—_

He packs what little things he has (maybe includes a beer or five), straps on the threadbare bag, and takes one last look at his house. It looks older and weak, as if it’s been abandoned with no maintenance to uphold its glory.

Harley turns, thinking that it’s fitting.

The sky is blue and void of any clouds. The other night, it was raining like it was trying to rid Hell of fire, and now, Harley frowns as puddles of mud and water become puddles in his shoes. He lets it sit there, the biting edge of the cold and uncomfortable feeling of wet socks. It’s a common thing that happens out in Rose Hill, but he lets it happen. 

The pain distracts him.

Harley has money for buses and he spends most of the first few rides gazing, distant, not sure whether or not he actually sits or stands or really thinks through the journey. His mind wanders as he does anything to forget, to drive away the few and far memories of his happy family.

While he waits for a bus, he burns their pictures.

While Harley waits for another, he writes down every small detail of them he can remember, down to their various facial expressions and body language and the times they spent together, their tells and distress and their joy.

It’s far shorter than he likes.

Then at another stop, Harley creates a copy of his original work and burns it. The original piece is buried, crumpled, beneath the food and clothes and various other blueprints he’s brought along. (The beer is long gone. It isn’t very strong ‘cause it’s beer. The other, tired passengers don’t give a fuck about it, and for the first time in he doesn’t know how long, he cracks a smile.)

(It’s a bitter one.) 

Harley spends the day and a few more by bus, and starts to wonder what Rose Hill will do when he proves to be gone. Maybe they’ll take the car—not like he had much to do with it other than drive it around. Everything worth of value (not like it’s much at all) is in his bag, clinking like glass on the verge of shattering.

There aren’t (weren’t) many worldly possessions between the three (one) of them. The house, he couldn’t give less of a shit about. They could burn it—hell, he’d probably encourage it. Better than becoming a hotspot for squatters, or being taken over by another family.

When Harley gets to where he’s going (Stark owes him one), he’s going to crash and leave all his tech and ideas with Stark to do something with it—he’s not sure if he cares what. He’s not sure if he’ll ever invent again.

After he sleeps properly, he’ll figure out what to do. All he does know is that he never wants to go back to Tennessee.

Manhattan is loud and fast and fleeting with searing lights. It’s constantly changing, constantly moving, and Harley finds himself believing that he can become used to this change of pace.

It’s so impossibly larger than him, than anything he’s ever done—it’s almost daunting. The sheer amount of people should have him nervous, at least, but Harley finds himself falling in love with the city.

Cool.

There are a lot of dirty back alleys and people lurking about and loud graffiti and large, scampering rats. Newspapers are plastered to the ground and faded gum sticks like, well, gum. It constantly smells like rain (despite the chill of midnight air) and the glass crunches beneath his feat. (His scraps in his bag have stopped clinking together.) 

When he gets to Stark’s tower (it’s flashy and stands out behind everything else of the city, like a building out of time), he pushes past security and calls to Stark’s AI (JARVIS), who brings him up to a fancy floor of the tower. The AI seems surprised, like JARVIS doesn’t, _can’t_ fathom a fifteen going on sixteen knowing Stark personally enough to call him Tony with all the stubborn conviction of a teen. 

Against the slabs of grey and blue and black of the sky, Stark’s tower practically glows blue. Everything is distant and glassy and feels so fragile. The room is decorated with creamy whites and yellows and blues that aren’t Stark’s style. Everything in the room is probably worth more than the entirtey of Rose Hill and then some, because Rose Hill sucks.

Harley sees Stark sitting and eyeing some expensive bottles of wine. Over the past five-something years, the lines in his face have become more prevalent, and there’s a tiredness to his eyes (and eyebags). There’s a lethargy he can’t place, something like the aftermath of the panic attack he talked up.

(He still regrets that.)

Stark turns when the elevator opens with a grandiose _pshh_ (It has elevator music, he can’t believe Tony embraces rich people culture, the traitor), and his eyes become full-blown saucers, the fancy glass with embellishes in his hand falling and splintering into thousands of tiny shards.

Harley’s voice is rough from screaming himself raw and not talking for who knows how long, but he still grins something that doesn’t reach his eyes as he says, “Hey, old man.”

Okay. This’ll eventually pass.

Harley strangles out a sob and crumbles.


	2. we were never destined

Harley’s a kid. A strong as hell kid—sure. But he’s still just a kid.

That’s mainly the reason Tony left the kid in Backwater, Tennessee, to live out whatever country folk did in their old-timey, rickety houses and fields and whatever. It’s easier to let his intellect be contained to nothing than something that will hurt him over and over and over. 

But now (after a particularly bad nightmare), an older Harley drenched head to toe with a glassy look in his eyes stands in his doorway, in the middle of a mental breakdown and—oh shit, the kid’s crying. He leans heavily against the doorframe. His shoes are caked in dried, cracking mud. Considering the temperatures out there, he’s surprised that Harley isn’t numb. (He looks like a statue.)

Tony’s first thought is to get his ass back to his mother, but his backpack is filled to the brim with things and he somehow gets the sense that this isn’t a spur of the moment decision—the kid left because he needs to be gone. There’s not much that would keep him in town, but this seems important. 

So Tony has Harley sit on the couch, which he instantly melts into, murmuring ” _ thank you so much I don’t know where to go there’s nowhere for me nowhere _ —“

And he says, right back, in a hushed tone, “ _ hey, hey, you’re here, kid. You’re here. _ ” (Okay, it’s cheesy. Sue him. Or, try to.) The kid stays silent for a while, holding back tears and trembling despite the heat of the tower. 

Harley looks up (for the first time). Despite the entire ‘five feet eleven inches’ scenario, he’s drawn into himself, fragile. “I’m not a kid,” he says, and his smile, oh god, it’s like a corroding, serrated knife. It’s  _ broken. _

“Sure,” Tony says, and his heart drops to his feet as fast as a bullet. 

Harley’s smile fades and becomes a bittersweet memory on his face, and he takes a deep breath before frowning. “I… I can’t feel my feet. Or, or really anything.”

“You’re going to be the motherfucking death of me, kid.” 

“Hey!” He pouts and playfully punches Tony’s shoulder. Despite Harley’s severe lack of athleticism, it does hurt. 

“You’ve wounded me. How could you do this,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, well, you’re an old man.” There’s a faraway look on Harley’s face, like he’s sharing the whispers and secrets of the universe and laughing at them. 

“Well, I’m as good as any old man you’ll meet. Not that I’m old, you’re just a baby.”

“Sure, old man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i reaaally didn’t like how this turned out and i didnt know how to stop and this has more prowess as a one shot so maybe ill take it down??? but here it is anyway

**Author's Note:**

> did i ever have the opportunity to watch im3?? no!!! did i still write this?? fuck yeah!!
> 
> but in all seriousness ive read so many fics with so many different voices for harley and i really cant get ahold of his character (like literally everything else ive written lmao) so,,, i guess this is practice?? please leave comments and kudos or whatever, it's cool.
> 
> (yall seen ffh?? i havent but ive heard the credits scenes are not so good for my heart)


End file.
